Short stories have a way of seeping from my pores. I can't help myself. I'm addicted to writing speculative narratives that feel weird, violent and heart-breaking, yet truthful in representing our humanity.

Tick, tock, tick. There's a countdown clock inside my brain. Play the game, play the game, I tell myself. But I can't let him win. Not when it comes to my memories, to what I know about my brother's death. I can't let him win. Can't let Dad gaslight me. Again and again and again.